


Certain Dark Things

by AvaRosier



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dominance/submission, F/F, TW Femslash Week, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Eight years, and still no sugar,” Only the Sahara would be drier than her voice then.</p><p>“I suspect if you actually wanted sugar, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. What do you want, Cora?” Her fingers, with their closely-trimmed, pale pink-painted nails continue to noisily turn the pages of the magazine.</p><p>“I need you to go into Alpha&Omega with me,” she swallows. “I need you to dominate me.”</p><p>For Teen Wolf Femslash week, day six (kink)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Dark Things

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to thatfilmgirl, whom I pestered into prompting me this fic.

“I need your help with a job,” Cora declares without preamble, only half-heartedly insulted that Lydia didn’t startle when she stepped into the room.

“Hm. Do you now?” Lydia doesn’t even tear her attention away from the glossy magazine she is perusing. Cora snorts and rolls her eyes, because she really expected nothing less.

“Eight years, and still no sugar,” Only the Sahara would be drier than her voice then.

“I suspect if you actually wanted sugar, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. What do you want, Cora?” Her fingers, with their closely-trimmed, pale pink-painted nails continue to noisily turn the pages of the magazine.

Lydia is still wearing all black, even though her father’s funeral must have been two days before.  Cora knows that Lydia is perfectly aware how difficult it is for her to ask for help.  Especially Lydia’s help.

And especially Lydia’s help on this kind of job. Cora works with her brother and uncle in the family business: hunting down supernatural artefacts. But Peter and Derek are working a long-haul case in Peru and so when the job offer came across her desk, Cora knew only one person who had the… _expertise_ …to help her with this one.

“I need you to go into Alpha&Omega with me,” she swallows. “I need you to dominate me.”

The rustling of pages comes to a halt. Lydia does look up at her then, and her eyes are darker, harsher than Cora remembers.

Lydia smiles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Some of the fae are so old, so powerful, that they were once gods. Humans seem to them silly ants with overlarge egos, and as such, fae are notoriously difficult to negotiate with. What Cora wants—what her client wants— is to acquire a set of scrolls that had once sat in the famed library of Alexandria, scrolls that detailed the ancient werewolf lineages of Rome, North Africa, and the Levant.

And the proprietor of Alpha&Omega had current possession over the scrolls.  The Alpha&Omega functioned as a supernatural sex club, and was every bit as shady and secretive as it could be, even in a world where they could walk freely amongst humans. The fae, species unkown, uses the human name Danielle. In times long gone, she had other names. Predominant amongst them all, _Danaus_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

If she could have had her way, Lydia would never have returned to Beacon Hills. But this is the place she was born, in more ways than one. And no matter how far she had run- to Connecticut, to Cambridge, to New Orleans- she just could not lock away the banshee in some dark corner of her psyche and leave it to rot in the abyss while she had a perfectly normal, _human_ life. All the people she had left behind in California...it seemed that they had forgotten everything they had gone through. They live relatively human lives and simply react to whatever sporadic threat that emerges. Lydia had spent months locked in her own mind with a predator, and those scars had never healed. 

So she had taught herself. She had manipulated, she had bargained, she had soaked up all the things she possibly could someday make use of. When you live in a world with gods, werewolves, and even worse- humans, knowledge was power.

And Lydia Martin has certainly made a name for herself.

“It can’t just be a performance; surely you are aware of that?” Lydia murmurs as her heels slowly tap on the hardwood floors of her old bedroom. Her mother had redone the house years before. This was not Lydia’s home any longer.

“I know that,” Cora grinds out between her teeth. She sits on the edge of Lydia’s mattress and follows Lydia’s form with her eyes.

“Do you?”

It’s a rhetorical question, one that Lydia does not expect an answer to as she stands, clad in nothing but her fanciest pair of black panties, thigh high black stockings, and her Louboutin heels. Lydia does not feel vulnerable, naked before a werewolf. Not before Cora. It is erotic, the sense of power she gets from sauntering around half-naked, her skin caressed by the air, the soft and curled strands of her hair, and the heat of Cora’s eyes.

“It wouldn’t be a performance with you,” Cora says without a strain of guile in her voice. 

Lydia pulls out the brand-new black corset she had bought in town earlier that day. She had two in her apartment back home, but obviously, she was not expecting to need them on this trip. She wears all black because she is supposed to be in mourning.

Her lips, however, Lydia paints bright red. She meets Cora’s eyes in the reflection of her mirror as she applies the wax. Cora does not flinch or look away. Satisfied, she closes the tube with a decisive click.

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

"You know what price I'll ask of you, little sister. I ask for what you are not willing to give."

 

 

* * *

 

Cora follows behind Lydia in a dress that Lydia had picked out especially for her. It is fancy, bright red like Lydia's lipstick, and with the fancy updo and artful makeup, Cora looks like she belongs on a red carpet not in a sex club. She never dresses like this, that's the point. The platform heels that Lydia put her in are the point, as well. She feels off-kilter already, trying to carfully navigate the rickety stairs that lead to the basement. Everything is dark and barely lit. It does not matter that Cora is taller than Lydia, or more covered-up (especially once Lydia slipped out of her coat). And it certainly doesn't matter that Cora is a werewolf and Lydia is a banshee.

The place reeks of suffering and sex. It is predictably red and black and teeming with human-looking people whose eyes glow or whose visages drop for an instant, revealing something horrific underneath. A growl of warning is heard in the back. 

Lydia saunters with certainty through the crowd, and Cora follows behind. Danielle has set aside a room for them, and Cora knows that no matter how it may appear, they will not be alone in there. There is always something waiting there, in the dark, watching you.

The room Danielle gives them is opulent, and brighter than the rest of the club. She wears a long dress of sheer gold, and her heavy earrings have tiny bells in them. Never grow complacent before a god, her mother had told her once. Your skin on your bones is always subject to a momentary whimsy. She has a pleasant smile on her face, but her eyes are dark and unfathomable.

"Welcome to my temple, Banshee." Danielle teases with all the camaderie of one sister greeting another. Two sisters are always more treacherous than two brothers.

Lydia does not hold herself as she once used to, with the foolhardy arrogance of a bright, popular girl. There is no need for such childish defense mechanisms.

"The world is your temple. This establishment is only an illusion to give mortals the comforting pretense of something that can be controlled." It's not a criticism, it's a statement of fact. Danielle takes it as such, and her laughter echoes with the peals of bells. And then her eyes turn onto Cora, freezing her in place even if she had a mind to move.

"I named my price, little sister. Payment's due."

Cora remembers that Lydia knows what it feels to have her innermost self violated and laid bare like butterflies pinned to red velvet boards. Do you even fear being stripped away after that?

Would Cora fear being stripped away like that after tonight?

Cora could have declined the job. It paid them handsomely, but they had plenty of options on the plate and the Hales lived comfortably. She also knew how Danielle operated. The second she picked up the phone and asked the fae to name her terms, she had effectively admitted that this was what she wanted. Violet gives willingly.  It had been her, all on her own, as a child when her family was killed. She still dreams of the smell of burning fur and agonized screaming. She was left behind, and she never forgot that. The lone wolf survived and she trusted no-one. There were a great many things she got used to doing alone, and a great many things she got used to not doing with other people.

She _never_ lets her guard down.

It says something that she wants Lydia to be the one to take her apart.

 

It starts like this: Lydia has acquired a riding crop from inside the room.

Lydia has acquired a riding crop and her nipples have tightened above the line of the corset as she circles Cora's trembling form. Standing on these heels are suddenly more of an effort than before. The leather tip of the crop slaps against Cora's calf before sliding upwards.

"Lift your dress past your hips." Lydia commands.  

Lydia commands and Cora obeys. The air is cool against her inner thighs and Cora tries to keep her breathing under control as the crop caresses the skin along her inner thighs. It presses against her cunt through her red panties. Lydia is behind her and Danielle is twenty feet in front of her, watching. 

The whip cracks against the back of her thighs, hard enough that even a werewolf such as she winces. Lydia rains down a series of blows before she retreats and observes Cora's reaction. 

"Unzip your dress and pull the sleeves down past your breasts. But don't remove your arms."  When Cora obeys this time, Lydia moves around until she is standing in front of her. Cora locks eyes with her and remembers that she is not alone. She is with Lydia. 

The first pinch to her nipple elicits a startled gasp from Cora. Her arms are symbolically imprisoned by the top part of her dress. Lydia rubs a finger against Cora's panty-clad pussy and she nearly rocks into the sweet sensation. 

"Hm." Lydia vocalizes, not impressed, and drops her hand away from where Cora wants it. 

This is the harmony, the sequence of rhythms that Lydia follows. She wields the whip mercilessly until Cora is whimpering with every breath, every stinging slap of the leather on her thighs, her chest, her buttocks. Then, crop resting under her arm, Lydia alternates between investigating the wetness underneath Cora's panties and slapping, then pinching her exposed nipples over the edge of the bra. It's all driving Cora rapidly to the edge. Her legs are trembling, and in the heels, she is rocking dangerously. She's trying to keep her spine straight, but the sharp pleasure-pain is making her want to clench her abs and curl down upon herself.

It's so humiliating, that she wants to come, wants this to stop, but she _can't_.

 

 

 

She'll only endure, won't she? She won't have to beg? 

 

* * *

 

The first time Lydia Martin meets Cora Hale, she calls her _sweetheart_  in one of those tones and claims that she can handle a werewolf. Cora huffs with disbelief, but she still feels like a fish out of the water when Lydia points at her and asks Stilinski if _she's for real_. 

Lydia Martin dominates. Lydia Martin always appears sure no matter how terrified she is on the inside. She's like a beacon to Cora, who glares at her with both envy and desire.

Lydia, she wields sex like a weapon. She _controls_. She takes these stupid boys and fucks them silly and tosses them to the side like used tissues. Just to know she _can_. She thought she was hard before, but she takes all the shattered pieces of her psyche and builds a truly insurmountable wall around her heart. 

Lydia is barely seventeen the first time she kisses Cora Hale. 

She is disgusted because she doesn't know why she did that. Actually yes, she does. Lydia does this because for all Cora sasses her, she still trusts Lydia when she says she knows what to do. 

But Lydia is determined to sever her ties to Beacon Hills.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lydia bends Cora over a dresser and curls her fingers into Cora's scalp and with the other hand, slides two fingers into Cora's already gasping cunt. Lydia fucks her relentlessly and Cora just knows that even with minimal contact on her clit, she will come soon.

"You mustn't. You are not permitted to orgasm until I tell you you may."

Lydia commands and Cora obeys. It feels so good, and Cora starts to wail and argue. "I can't! I'm too close! Lydia, _I'm not going to make it!_ " Her brain is reduced to an almost animalistic level of being wholly focused on desperately trying not to come. Her breasts press into the cold wood, Lydia pants harshly behind her, and dark eyes are always watching in the corner. Wild sounds are rent from her throat and her begging grows more desperate before the dam breaks inside her. She doesn't come, no, Cora _breaks_. 

Lydia removes her fingers with a wet squelch and Cora collapses on the floor, sobbing. Danielle giggles, and the chime of bells echo through the room. "Your name precedes you, Banshee. I knew I was right to get a good look at you while you were still weak."

Cora is beyond caring about the politics going on between Lydia and the fae. The word dribbles from her lips. "Please, Lydia. Please."

" _Shhhh_ ," she soothes and helps Cora get to her feet. Lydia guides her to the bed and crawls over Cora as she lay her quivering body over the ornate bedcover. Lydia's eyes were so gentle, and her touch so soft against the side of Cora's face. "I'm not Lydia, who am I?"

Cora lets out a few gasping breaths before she answers. "Mistress, you're my mis-"

That gentle hand turns into a vise grip on Cora's chin and in shock, Cora focuses again on the redhead above her. Lydia's voice is sharp and disapproving.

" _No_. That's not who I am. Who am I, Cora?" 

In a flash, Cora understands exactly what Lydia is demanding and she twists in Lydia's embrace, too terrified to admit what she knows is truth. 

Cora had been left behind. Cora had been omega for all these years. Cora had cleaved to no alpha since her mother. And never like this. "No, please, you can't ask this of me."

Lydia shakes as she nods, and her eyes are so dark because her pupils are absolutely blown. Her breath is coming in eager pants, and Cora understands again.  Lydia had been turned inside out, and then she had been left behind, too. Cora understands that Lydia is rendering her own payment to Danielle as much as Cora is. Cora is not alone in this room. When the comprehension dawns, Cora feels so grateful, and she splinters apart.

"Alpha. You're my Alpha."

Lydia moans on a shaky sigh and wrenches Cora's head to the side, exposing her throat. "Come." Lydia commands, and Cora obeys. She doesn't fight this and when Lydia bites down, into blood and sinew, Cora howls.  She feels the shift come on- the golden eyes and the claws- and Lydia's thigh is right there against her cunt. That's all it takes: a spark against dry tinder.

Cora ruts against Lydia's leg, and the surrender is bright, obliterating.

 

 

Elsewhere, a goddess closes her eyes and thunder rolls when she sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

The fae feed off euphoric moments such as these. Especially those who have lived such long lives, and to whom the passing of decades has instilled in them an utter boredom and apathy for what is normally beautiful. They have some degree of psychic sense that allows them to feel what humans and other supernatural beings feel.  That is how the fae sustain themselves, how they remember: the wave of an orgasm, the euphoria of surrender, the abandon of violence, the moment of unimaginable loss. _Death_.

 

 

* * *

 

"Lock it up," Lydia whispers in a throaty voice from behind her. Cora feels like a live wire, like her mind is vibrating in space above her body. She is dressed again, but she feels naked still. She does as Lydia tells her, and locks the scrolls up in the heavy-duty safe in Peter's office. "It'll be safe for the night."

Cora says nothing as she turns to face Lydia. Her Mis- she's removing her coat, her shoes, and her corset. Lydia keeps going until she is completely naked, and as a final act, pulls her long hair out of the uptwist. 

And then she steps closer to Cora and begins to help her out of her own clothes. Cora can barely help her, and it's not until she's undone the fancy bun her hair had been in that she floats back down to herself. 

"We're in Peter's office."

Lydia raises a rebellious eyebrow to demonstrate how much she could care less that it was Peter's office. At least it had a nice couch. When Cora steps into the circle of Lydia's arms, she feels more like a schoolgirl who's just gotten naked in front of someone else for the first time. Lydia presses a soft kiss against Cora's throat, since it was right in front of her. Their bodies bump and jostle against each other as Lydia walks backwards towards the couch. 

When Cora falls on top of Lydia, it's like a switch turns on inside her and she's thrumming with desperation. Their kisses are sweet, tinged with a deepening intensity, so much that they rapidly get to the point they're nearly suffocating. Cora glides her breasts over Lydia's until her nipples are tingling. And then she's clutching the woman underneath her as she tilts her pelvis against Lydia's so they can rub their slick pussies together.

It's sweet, the ache of that first contact.  And then Cora is flying off the handle, jerking roughly on top of Lydia. The room is silent save for the harsh sounds of their breathing, and Cora's low keening.  It's not a strong orgasm, but it's a meaningful one, and it feels like the tension in her muscles have finally released. She shakes as she comes down from the high, and Lydia strokes her hands through Cora's hair, and down her back. 

When she lifts herself up to peer down at Lydia and says "your turn," Lydia does not protest. They switch positions and Cora slides two fingers inside Lydia and lets her grind her clit against the heel of Cora's hands as she wishes. Lydia's hair falls like a curtain over Cora's face, and it's like their worlds have become enveloped in the exchange of breaths and the meeting of their gazes. Neither of them hide from one other. 

Lydia is beautiful when she comes. That should not surprise Cora.

They won't sleep here, there is no comfort to be had on Peter's couch without even a blanket. Cora really doesn't know whether they will go to her place or Lydia's not-her-room-anymore. She doesn't know what will happen after this, when Lydia goes back to the East Coast. But perhaps for the first time in years, she feels as if she's grabbed ahold of someone else in the wreckage left by everyone who has left. 

But now, neither of them are alone.

 

 

* * *

  
_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
 _or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
 _I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
 _in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that never blooms_  
 _but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_  
 _thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,_  
 _risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
 _I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_  
 _so I love you because I know no other way_

_than this: where I does not exist, nor you,_  
 _so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,_  
 _so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._  


 


End file.
